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Vasaris, the Fuzzy Dragon
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March 2014
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Vasaris, the Fuzzy Dragon [userpic]
A Day in the Life of an On-Call Slave


Short, squat hands fumble for a short squat cellphone. Fuddled hazel eyes stare blearliy at the phone while a brain short on sleep and long on the previous night's exursion into Every Expansion that Exists for Arkham Horror (Azathoth, Kiss Me, you Fool!) tries to figure out which button to push to actually answer.


"Is this CompanyThatEmploysYou?"

"Uhghuh." A fuzzy head turns a bit, so the owner is no longer faceplanted into a warm, cuddly, dream-filled pillow. "Um, yes?"

"Hi, this is TheBaneofyourSunday, from CompanyThatPaysYoursALot."

"H'lo." Somewhere in the background, a small, fuzzy creature who knows perfectly well that she is decended from ancient gods is meowing somwhat pitifully. The frizzy-headed, fuzzy-brained human peels off a bit of her comfortable cocoon of blankets, quilt, and sleeping bag. "How can I help you"

"...Were you asleep?" asks a somewhat scandalized voice.

"Um, yes?" A quick glance outside reveals early morning light. "What can I do for you?"

"Well there's this shipment that was supposed to be cleared yesterday..."

"I didn't see a shipment." Confusion settles in a prickly cloak around the On-Call Slave. "Nothing was on the fax on in my email."

"Do you want me to email it to you?"

"Um, sure."

"How soon will you be able to tell me anything?" asks TheBaneofYourSunday. "Eleven o'clock?"

"I don't know, what time is it?"


"Well," more covers peel away and there's an outraged meep from the Imperial Fuzziness who was apparently bopped in the head with the corner of a blanket, "give me thirty minutes to get up to the office."

"Thank you!"


Small, stubby hands fumble about for a moment, managing to locate a pair of glasses. Hazel eyes now suitably dressed, even if the rest of the fuzzy-headed On-Call Slave is in sleeping attire, meander over the face of the phone.

It's eight o'clock AM.

On Sunday.

Why the need for outrage that the On-Call Slave was asleep?

Puzzled, the On-Call slave rises and puts on clothing a bit more appropriate for going in to work. A cheerful, smiling Octopoid creature declares, from his place atop breasts the owner would love to trade in for smaller models, that the owner has learned all she needs to know by playing Cthulhu.

Hastur, Hastur, Hastur! Bring on that Cthulhu/Ithaqua slash... Okay, no. Please don't.

It's not a workday, there's no need for buisness clothes.

Being a not entirely incompetent kitty-mommie, the On-Call Slave manages to feed and water Her not-terribly-Serene Highness, High Princess Fuzzy-butt and manages to find her way out of the house and navigate her car to the office.

Dodging through the Anti-Destination-League members who are being good little boys and girls as they appear to be going to Church, the On-Call Slave finds her brain waking up a little. Didn't CompanyThatPaysYoursALot send in paperwork on Friday? If so, what's the problem?

The On-Call Slave puzzles about this as she unlocks the door to the office. Out of habit, she checks the Fax machine and is unsurprised to find that Idiot R. A. Moron from Stupid-Transport-Company (not to be confused with Transport-Company-That-Hires-Exclusively-From-the-Planet-of-Stupid-Women) has faxed urgent paperwork, but once again cannot be bothered to let the On-Call Slave know it is here.

Still, she's here for CompanyThatPaysYoursALot anyway so at least she's not going to be called out at 3:30AM to deal with Idiot R. A. Moron's truck. First, though, she needs to get a look at the paperwork that's been sent to her.

*futz*futz*futz* A few minutes latter the On-Call Slave is logged in and checking her email. There's a brief note from TheBaneOfYourSunday written almost completely in gibberish that causes the On-Call slave to scritch her head. Maybe this is about the entry on Friday? Glancing over her emails from Friday, the On-Call Slave forwards the one regarding the urgent shipment to CompanyThatPaysYoursALot to TheBaneOfYourSunday requesting clairification as to whether this is the shipment in question, as said shipment can cross the border any time.

While the On-Call Slave waits, she does the work for Idiot R. A. Moron's truck. Then she waits some more. And waits a little longer. And a bit longer after that. It's been nearly an hour since she sent TheBaneOfYourSunday email. Puzzled, she roots around through various emails to find a phone number, or something. After some digging through the previous day's emails, she finds one that might work.

*brrrring*brrrrring*brrring*Holy moly is this going to time out and kick the On-Call Slave to voicemail?*brrring*brrring*brrrrin--

"Hello, this is TheBaneOfYourSunday."

"Hi, this is the On-Call Slave. I sent you an email about that shipment?"

"Oh. Oh, yeah! Yes, it's the same one."

The On-Call slave sighs. "Well, it's good to go."

"I saw that."

The On-Call slave womanfully managed not to point out that it doesn't take much to hit "Reply" and answer a yes/no question. "Okay. That's good."

"Yeah, thanks!"

Given that it's 9 AM and the On-Call Slave was up until around 5AM, the On-Call Slave goes home and goes back to bed.


"Gurghfmphhha." Short, squat hands fumble around for the short squat phone again. "H'lo?"

"Hi, this is Impatient McCranky-Pants from the University of Canadian Province. I'm at your office and I see that you're closed."

"Mmmmm. Yes?" It takes an amazing amount of skill to notice that every office in the building is locked. The On-Call Slave is dutifully impressed by Impatient McCranky-Pant's prowess in the field of making his Spot check.

"Well, y'see we get deliveries via DHL all of the time, so I was thinking that maybe you could help me."

"What do you need?"

"Well, I've got some lab equipment that I need to get across the border."

"Is UBC a client of ours?"

"We get deliveries!"

Despite the fact that it's not even noon yet and the On-Call Slave needs more sleep, she manages not to reach through the phone and throttle the man on the other end. Getting packages via DHL is hardly the same thing as having a brokerage account.

The On-Call Slave sighs. "Okay, the best I can do is come up to the office and look and see if you're a customer of ours. If you're not, there's nothing I can do for you."

"How long will that take?"

The On-Call Slave grimaces at the impatience in the man's tone. "30-40 minutes."

"30-40 minutes! Why so long! Aren't you here in town?"

"I live in Birch Bay and you woke me up. I have to get dressed and drive up there."

"You were asleep?!"

Once again, the On-Call Slave is puzzled. It's Sunday, a supposed day of rest. Why is everyone so surprised by the notion of someone sleeping?

"Yes. It'll take me maybe 30-40 minutes to get there."

"I guess I'll just wait here then."

The On-Call slave kind of doubts it, but there's some paperwork from CompanyThatPaysYoursALot left over from Friday that she can work on, so she's not going to quibble about going back to the office when it was necessary anyway.

She fumbles about getting dressed again -- Cthulhu once more smiling cheerfully at anyone unfortunate enough to be looking in the general vicinity of the On-Call Slave's torso. Pants, socks, shoes (not to mention the required undergarments) complete the look of "Not getting arrested for public indecency" and she clambers into the car, making her way to the office.


Being moderately intelligent (and also because the On-Call Phone has absolutely crap sound and volume) the On-Call Slave pulls over.

"Hello, thank you for calling CompanyThatEmploysMe."

"Hi! This is TheBaneOfYourSunday again. I emailed you about another clearance I need done, like, two hours ago now and you haven't responded!"

"Around --" checks clock, "9:30 or so?"


"That's because I went back home and went back to bed."

"You went back to sleep?!"

At this point, the On-Call Slave is feeling a bit paranoid. Did someone pass a law about not sleeping on theoretical days of rest when she wasn't looking?

"Yes. I usually work nights. Mornings aren't really my thing."

"Oh!" There's a faint humm over the phone line, kind of like someone is holding a 20-watt bulb up to the receiver. "Well, it's really important that this clearance get done."

Strangely, the On-Call Slave mostly thinks that all clearances are important, but whatever.

"I'm on my way in now, since I was called out by someone else. I'll let you know when I'm finished."


And the On-Call Slave managed to make it to the office without incident.

On the whole, the On-Call Slave is grateful that Impatient McCranky-Pants *isn't* at the office when she gets in -- the prospect of explaining that he would need to list every piece of equipment with a description of it's use, with value and country of origin before anyone anywhere could begin to contemplate trying to make an entry for him was one that she didn't want to face anyway.

Unlocking the door, the On-Call Slave is relieved to find that neither Idiot R. A. Moron from Stupid-Transport-Company nor Transport-Company-That-Hires-Exclusively-From-the-Planet-of-Stupid-Women have faxed in the meantime. She launches her email and finds some random, useless gibberish from TheBaneOfYourSunday.

The On-Call Slave blinks. She stares at the email a bit more, thinking maybe with the power of a keen mind that's had nearly enough sleep she might be able to glean some kind of useful meaning from the email.

The facts set out make no sense, for one. Also, no actual paperwork for the entry is attached. The On-Call Slave has certain requirements to do entries -- things like Invoices, Bills of Lading, Shipment Control Numbers... these are absolutely essential to the life of a successful On-Call Slave. In fact, they're necessary for the On-Call Slave's day afternoon job of being a Data-Entry Slave.

The On-Call Slave emails TheBaneOfYourSunday, pointing out the complete lack of paperwork, not to mention lack of information from the trucking company that's bringing it down, so an entry is completely impossible to do. She even sends it high priority, because a response is important.

In the meantime, the On-Call Slave does some other work. And then some more other work. Then even more other work.

An hour later, she digs out the phone number from the morning, trying to work out why anyone who evidently prefers email contact can't be bothered to read/answer messages sent via this medium. Just before she can dial, however, new mail arrives!

Joy! Happiness! Spontaneous orgasms!

It's the paperwork she needs!

Only, there's no Shipment Control Number from the transport company. Without that, there's no way to complete the entry. Politely, the On-Call Slave requests this information. After all, TheBaneOfYourSunday wants this done ASAP!

She goes back to doing other work. And more work. And more work. When the On-Call Slave comes up for air, nearly two more hours have passed and there's been no response, either from TheBaneOfYourSunday or the transport company.

The On-Call Slave is quite confoozlated. She dials TheBaneOfYourSunday.



"This is On-Call Slave again. I kinda need that Shipment Control Number."

"Oh, I called the guy, but he hasn't gotten back to me."

"Oh. Um --" The On-Call Slave is unsure what to say -- it's hard to understand how one can believe a shipment is OMG-MUST-CLEAR and but not be willing to press for the one piece of information that would allow the clearance to go through.

"How about I give you his number and you can ask him!"

"That... sounds like a good idea."

Random strings of whole numbers are rattled off and the On-Call Slave quickly puts her new knowledge to good use.

"Hello? This is Guy-Person from Transport-Company-That-Is-Usually-Competent."

"Hi, this is On-Call Slave, TheBaneOfYourSunday gave me this number because I need a ShipmentControlNumber."

"Well, I'm on the road right now --" The On-Call Slave can hear the traffic and can totally sympathise, "-- could you possibly fax me the paperwork?"

The On-Call Slave's brain fails to fire any neurons for a moment or three and the experience of being clinically dead from shock is not one she cares to repeat. It's kind of hard to understand why TheBaneOfYourSunday thinks that the Transport-Company-That-Is-Usually-Competent isn't in need of the shipping information. How they were supposed to identify the right containers of stuff when they got to MajorCanadianInternationalAirport is a mystery.

"Um," says the On-Call Slave. "It would be easier to email it, if possible."

"Email!" says Guy-Person. "If you could email it to Other-Vaguely-Impatient-Guy-You-Usually-Deal-With, he's at the office right now and can get you that info!"

"Yay! I can totally do that!"

Off goes the email, and back it comes a few minutes later. With great relish (that sweet jalapenjo kind, that's not really spicy, but yummier than regular pickle relishes) the On-Call Slave finishes the entries for CompanyThatPaysYoursALot.

Once done, the phone calls stop and the On-Call Slave has the opportunity to mess around on-line and retire to bed and read for a few hours, cuddling Her not-terribly-Serene Highness, High Princess Fuzzy-Butt.

Current Mood: awakeawake